Home
by Chelsea Watson
Summary: A year and a half have passed since Sherlock Holmes faked his death. Sherlock is finally coming home, but at what cost and why? Rated M for later chapters. See beginning of each chapter for warnings.
1. Two Parts Of A Whole

**Author's Note: If you haven't read my One Shot "I Believe In Sherlock Holmes" I recommend that you do, as this is sort of based off of it. This fic goes hand in hand with it. Also, this is my first multi-chapter that has Sherlock characters. I am going to try my best to keep them very much in character, but I make no promises. I hope that you enjoy! Ratings and reviews are very much appreciated! Also, it is rated M for later chapters.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. All credit goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC.**

**Chapter Warnings: Mention of suicide**

Sherlock Holmes was a great man. He may have been rude at times, but he was honest, which is more than most people can say. He was a happy man, and he didn't need someone else to make him feel complete. In fact, Sherlock Holmes believed that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. He had never truly cared for anyone, other than Mrs. Hudson (his landlady, whom he saw as a second mother) until he met Doctor John Watson.

John Watson changed everything for Sherlock Holmes. For as long as Sherlock could remember, he had imagined a solitary life, one where he worked on solving cases and crimes by himself. But the moment John entered his life, that changed. Within twenty-four hours of meeting John, Sherlock had taken him on a case and had his life saved by John. It was when the bullet, from John's gun, hit the cabbie in front of Sherlock that he realized that he needed John Watson in his life. It was that moment that Sherlock realized a solitary life was not what he needed.

Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. They were a pair, two parts of a whole. Everyone knew it except Sherlock and John. It was rare to see either of them without the other. It really wasn't a surprise that everyone thought that they were together. Especially if you were lucky enough to catch them staring at one another when they thought no one (especially the other) was looking. Everyone could see that they wanted each other, except the two of them.

Well, that's not completely true. John knew that he was in love with Sherlock. And Sherlock knew that he was in love with John. But they didn't know about the other's feelings. In some ways this wasn't a surprise. After all, John was under the assumption that Sherlock couldn't feel love. And Sherlock was under the impression that John was straight, as John always told anyone who would listen that he wasn't gay.

Sherlock and John lived together for a year and a half, solving crimes and cases together. John dated many women over that period of time, but none of them seemed to last more than a few dates. This was mostly Sherlock's fault, after all, he would do anything he could to sabotage the dates. Anything and everything from constantly texting John to actually showing up on the date. He made no attempt to remember any of their names, or anything about them.

Sherlock and John were happy, for the most part. This was until Jim Moriarty showed up in their lives, determined to destroy Sherlock. The first time that Moriarty threatened John's life, he did so by strapping bombs to his chest. After that, Sherlock vowed that he would never let any harm come to John. And after that, Moriarty knew the way to destroy Sherlock.

When Moriarty told Sherlock that he would "burn the heart out of him" Sherlock knew that John and his career were in danger. John and his career were the two most important things in Sherlock's life, though John was more important that his career. That was why Sherlock knew that he needed a plan. That was why Sherlock knew that Moriarty would force him to kill himself.

Sherlock planned his suicide, knowing that one day he would have to die. He knew only a public place would be suitable for what he had planned and he knew that John would have to see it. He was doing it for John, to protect John. If John believed he was dead, then everyone else would believe he was dead too. Everyone except Molly that was. Molly was the only person he told his true plan to. Sherlock planned to fake his death, putting John out of danger, and being able to take down the rest of Moriarty's web in secret. Molly was the person he had help him.

For the next year and a half after Sherlock faked his death, he worked on taking down Moriarty's web, and had nearly finished when he got a single phone call. A phone call that would change his life. He had given Molly a number that she could call in case of emergency or if something happened to John. He had assumed that the phone would never ring, so when it did, he dropped everything that he was doing and answered the phone. "Hello? Molly?" He asked into the phone.

On the other end of the phone, Molly let out a soft sigh of relief when Sherlock answered. She had honestly been worried that Sherlock wouldn't answer. "Sherlock... It's John. He's in the hospital, in a coma. He attempted suicide," she quaked, unsure how Sherlock would take the news. Would he come home? Would he stay away? Would he blame himself?

Sherlock's hand shook just slightly. "What hospital?" He whispered, not quite trusting his voice. John had attempted suicide. Why? It c couldn't be his fault, could it? Of course it was! He had left his best friend. He had killed himself in front of John!

That wasn't what Molly was expecting to hear from Sherlock. "He's at St. Bart's," she replied quickly, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't want her to beat around the bush. "They aren't sure he's going to wake, Sherlock." Molly swallowed loudly after giving Sherlock that piece of information.

"I'll be there in an hour, Molly," was Sherlock's reply before the line went dead. As Sherlock set the phone down, he took a deep breath. He was going home. He was finally going home. It might not have been under the best circumstances, but he was finally going home.


	2. A Long Awaited Return

**Author's Note: Wow, a quick update. This isn't likely to happen again for awhile. But it did this time! Thank you to everyone who favourited this story, and put it on alert and reviewed. It's much appreciated! I hope you like this chapter. Remember, reviews are wonderful! Also, this chapter has been edited since it was posted. Nothing much has changed just one line to reflect something read later in the story.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. All rights and credit go to their owners. Except the mistakes. Any and all mistakes are mine.**

**Warnings: Mention of suicide.**

Sherlock Holmes hated hospitals. He hated the smell. He hated how clean they were. But worst of all he hated how they made him think of death. Normally thinking of death didn't bother Sherlock, but there was something about hospitals that made him hate it. He hated this hospital even more than most. This was because John, his John, his best friend, was currently laying in a bed somewhere, completely unconscious, completely unaware that he was here and alive.

Sherlock took a deep breath before he stepped in the front doors, glad to catch sight of Molly Hooper right away. He quickly and silently made his way to her, his hand shaking slightly. He needed a smoke, a drink, anything to calm him down, even just slightly. But he couldn't risk that right now, he needed to get to John's side and now.

Molly looked up from where she was standing to see Sherlock walking towards her. He looked horrible. He had lost at least fifteen pounds since Molly had last seen him, and he needed a haircut desperately. His cheeks had sunk into his face slightly and he was even paler than normal. Molly supposed that was what a year and a half of not really taking care of himself would do. She could only hope that he hadn't started using again.

Molly herself had changed in the past year and a half, having put on just a little bit of weight. It wasn't much, but it was enough that Sherlock noticed. She looked good, healthy. Her hair was shorter as well, closer to shoulder length. Even Sherlock had to admit that she looked attractive and happy. Not right now, as she was worried about John, but Sherlock could see traces of her happiness. She must have found someone, Sherlock decided, though who, he couldn't tell at the moment.

Molly greeted Sherlock with a tight smile, unsure how she was supposed to greet someone that she hadn't seen in a year and half. Sherlock said nothing, only moving to grip Molly's hand, something that he wouldn't be comfortable with if she was anyone else (unless she was John). Molly only nodded in understanding as she led Sherlock to the room that John was in. When they got to the door, she looked up at the man before her. "Sherlock, you have to promise that you won't cause a scene. He still isn't awake, and the doctors are trying their best," she all but whispered.

Sherlock nodded slowly before he let go of her hand and reached for the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, he was home. John was home. But, what if John woke and he didn't want Sherlock around? What if John never forgave him for what he did? What if John hated him for it? Sherlock took a deep breath before he stepped through the doorway and into the room.

The sight before him terrified him. John was laying in a bed, a bunch of tubes and wires hooked up to him. He looked weak, horrible, helpless. It wasn't just because of the fact that he was in a hospital bed, nor was it just because he had attempted suicide. Sherlock could see what a year and a half had done to John. He could see that John had suffered severe depression and just what that did to him. John had lost weight, enough that Sherlock was surprised that he hadn't passed out from hunger. His cheeks had also sunk in, and his hair had greyed quite a bit more.

As Sherlock moved to sit beside the bed, he took John's hand in his own. How could he have let this happen? How could he not have thought about what John would go through? Sherlock sat there blaming himself for everything that had happened to John. It wasn't until almost two whole minutes later that he noticed the rope burns on John's neck.

John had tried to overdose? Who had found him? Mrs. Hudson? Likely, more likely than anyone else finding him. Sherlock's hand began to shake slightly again. What if Mrs. Hudson hadn't found John? What if it was too late? What if John never woke up? Sherlock wasn't sure he would be able to deal with John not waking up. After all, he had come home for John. John was his home. If John didn't wake up, would Sherlock go through exactly what John had?

Sherlock squeezed John's hand lightly. "John... It's me, Sherlock. You have to wake up," he whispered. "You have to. Please. For me." Sherlock wasn't normally one to beg, or plead, but he wanted John to be awake more than anything. He wanted to tell John the truth, he wanted a chance at a real life with John. He wanted his best friend back.

Molly Hooper stood in the doorway of the hospital room, a single tear falling down her cheek. There was a time when she would have done almost anything to hear Sherlock talk to her like that. She wouldn't now, she had Greg now, but seeing Sherlock care for John in that way, it made her feel horrible. She had talked to the doctor's, there was a good chance that John wouldn't wake up. What would Sherlock do then? Would he leave again?


	3. Broken

**Author's Note: I hope that everyone had a very Happy New Year! Thank you for the reviews and favourites. Remember that reviews are very much appreciated! On a side note, I hope to update once or twice a week but I make no promises.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but any mistakes.**

**Warnings: Distressed Sherlock.**

Three days had passed since Sherlock Holmes had returned to the world of the living. Three entire days of Sherlock sitting beside John Watson's bed in the hospital, hoping to whatever God there may be that John would wake up. Doctors and nurses alike had tried to get Sherlock to move, but he refused to. It was to the point where Molly had called Mycroft, who had managed to pull some strings to get Sherlock to be allowed to stay. Sherlock had barely ate over the three days, only picking at the sandwiches that Molly brought to him.

"Well, if it isn't my dear brother," Mycroft drawled from the door, causing Sherlock to jump, startling him from the trance he had been in. All he had done for three days was stare at John, and talk to him, hoping that he would wake. He really shouldn't have been surprised to see his brother, if anything he should be surprised that it had taken Mycroft so long to show up at the hospital.

Sherlock slowly turned to look at his older brother. He has put on weight since last time he had seen him. "Diet not working out for you, Mycroft?" He asked, though his voice lacked the usual bite it had when he talked to his older brother. He just didn't care about anything except for John in that moment. He needed John to wake.

"I'm glad to see that you're alive," Mycroft said after a minute of silence. "I'm sure that John will be happy." Mycroft left the _if he wakes_ off the end of his sentence, but they both knew that it was there. "He hasn't been the same since your alleged death, Sherlock."

_That much is obvious._ Sherlock thought bitterly. _If he was the same, he wouldn't be here, possibly dying. If he was the same... I may never have come home._ That thought terrified Sherlock more than anything else. And then another one crossed him mind. _What if he wakes and he doesn't want me?_

"Has there been anymore news?" Sherlock asked his brother, his eyes hopeful. He knew that if anyone was going to be able to find anything out, it would be Mycroft. He hated knowing he was relying on his brother, but if he didn't, he wasn't sure he would find anything out.

Mycroft took a moment before he replied. "The Doctors believe that there is a very good chance of him waking now. But that he may never be the same. They believe that if he wakes he will have severe memory loss." Mycroft thought a moment to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything before he gave a slight nod of his head, indicating that he was in fact done.

_He might not remember me. If he doesn't remember me... He won't remember what I did._ Sherlock frowned slightly. "Will he remember with time?" When he looked at Mycroft and received a small nod his frown grew. _He's going to hate me if I don't tell him. I have to tell him if he doesn't remember. Otherwise he will never forgive me._

Mycroft stood in the doorway for only a little longer before he silently left the room, leaving Sherlock to his own thinking and to talking to John. Sherlock took John's hand in his own, and looked at him. "John... It's me, Sherlock. I don't know if you can hear me. Or if you even remember me. But... I need you to wake up. Please, John. I need you to wake up. I need you. Please. John... You know me, I don't beg. But I'll do anything if you just wake up. Please. I need you. There is so much I didn't tell you. So much I need to tell you. Please John. Please."

Sherlock wasn't a man to cry, but as he sat there begging with John's unconscious body, he felt tears begin to roll down his cheeks. "John... Please. I need you. I came home. You're my home. I need you. Please. I'm not dead. I promise. I'll never leave again. Please, just wake up." Sherlock silently moved from the chair to crawl into the hospital bed beside John. He knew the other wouldn't know it was him, or even know it was happening, but he wrapped his arms around John's body, and buried his face into the crook of his neck.

"John. Please," he whispered into his neck once more before he finally allowed sleep to take over his body. After not sleeping properly in months, and then not at all for three days, he was exhausted. He knew that John, had he of been awake, would have gotten after him for not taking care of himself.

Only a short while later, Mycroft had come back with some food for his younger brother, but when he had seen him, he left him alone. Mycroft made sure that the nurses would leave John alone for the night, and that Sherlock would be allowed to stay in the bed without any problems. Mycroft had a theory: both John and Sherlock needed that closeness. If he was correct, he was sure that John would awake within the next few days.


	4. It's Doctor Watson

**Author's Note: Hey guys. Here's the next chapter. I hope you are all enjoying this so far. Reviews would be lovely. I love to get review from you all. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**Chapter Warnings: Mention of suicide.**

The first thing that John noticed when he finally awoke was that he wasn't in his own bed. He slowly opened his eyes, taking a moment or two to adjust to the light streaming in the window. The room was too white. Had he died? The last thing he remembered was being shot, and all the pain that came with it. No, he wasn't dead, he was in the hospital. He blinked slowly, his shoulder didn't hurt.

It wasn't until nearly two minutes later that John realized that there was someone laying against him in the bed. He frowned deeply as he tried to push the body away, but he didn't succeed. Who would be laying against him? He wasn't seeing anyone and it wasn't as though his sister would have came to see him in the hospital, and even if she had of, she wouldn't have laid against him.

Sherlock woke shortly after John had, only because John was trying to push him off. He was wide awake in seconds, sitting up and grinning at John. "John! You're awake!" He nearly sang, before he wrapped his arms around John again, only to pull back when John stiffened in his arms.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?" John asked, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He didn't recognize Sherlock, and would swear that he had never seen the man in his life. Something in the back of his mind told him that he should know that man, especially as he had been curled up against him, but John ignored that voice. "And where am I?"

Sherlock's face fell and he pulled back further before scrambling off of the bed. He knew his brother had warned him about this, but nothing could have truly prepared him for John not remembering him. He took a deep breath before he sat down in the chair by the bed. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, your flatmate. And you're currently in St. Bart's hospital."

John frowned deeply. "Flatmate? I don't have a flatmate. I've been in Afghanistan for nearly two months now. I never had a flatmate," he paused when he realized that the man before him had said St. Bart's. "St. Bart's? I did my training here. Why am I here? Why am I not being treated in Afghanistan? After all, I was only shot in the shoulder."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "John... I don't know how to tell you this, but you haven't been in the army for over three years now. You were shot in the shoulder and then discharged and sent home," he paused before he decided that now was the best time to explain everything. He knew he should probably tell a doctor that John was awake, but he was worried that if he didn't tell John now, he never would. "You moved to London, and you rented a small flat, but you couldn't afford it. We ended up meeting through a friend of yours and we moved in together, both needing someone to split the cost of a flat with. We moved into 221B Baker Street, and we lived there for a year and a half. We solved crimes together. I... I faked my own death a year and a half ago, leaving you behind. I... it's my fault you're here. You attempted suicide," he finished in a whisper.

John's eyes widened. "You're lying to me. You made all of that up," he said quickly. He refused to believe the man before him. Surely, if anything he had said was true, John would remember. "Get out of my room!" John suddenly shouted, not wanting to see the stranger in front of him anymore.

Sherlock jumped at John's outburst, and clenched his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them again, he looked at John. "John... Please, you have to believe me," he whispered, but all he got in reply was a cold glare from the man before him, the man he loved. Sherlock slowly stood up, and walked towards the door. He would go get a doctor, and maybe after John had talked to a doctor he would believe him.

John was left sitting in the hospital before for only a few minutes before a doctor walked into the room. "I'm glad to see you're awake, Mr. Watson," the doctor greeted him. John quickly corrected the man, making sure he knew he was Dr. Watson. "My apologies, Dr. Watson. I'm Dr. Coles, and I'm in charge of making sure you recover properly from your attempted suicide and your coma. How are you feeling?"

John's eyes widened as he realized that there was a chance that the man that had been in here before was telling the truth. _What had he said his name was? Sherlock?_ John suddenly felt sick, but forced a tight smile onto his face. "I'm feeling fine, just a little tired. How long have I been unconscious?"

"About four days now," the doctor replied to the question John had asked. "Now, can you tell me what the last thing you remember before waking up here was?"

John sat there a moment, trying to remember exactly what it was. "Pain. The last thing I remember is pain. I was shot in my shoulder. That's the last thing I remember," he said with a frown. _The doctor said I attempted suicide. So why don't I remember that?_

"That's what I was afraid of. You seem to be unable to remember anything that has happened in the past three years. Now, this is nothing to be alarmed about, as it is completely normal. Over time, you will begin to remember those three years," the doctor said with a smile. "Now, since you seem to be doing alright, I'll leave you to rest and I'll come back later."

John nodded slowly but before the doctor left the room, he swallowed hard and asked, "Could you please send Sherlock in to see me?" He wasn't even sure that the doctor has heard him, as there was no reply.


	5. Feeling Human

**Author's Note: Hey guys. As always reviews and follows are wonderful. Also, there probably won't be an update for the next few weeks. The end of the semester is nearly upon me for school. Which means I am swamped with work. It's ridiculous. So please bare with me as I get all my school stuff done. I would really appreciate it. Please note that chapter two has been edited to reflect what this chapter says about John's attempted suicide. Thank you to Kazduit for pointing this out to me. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Chapter warning: Mention of suicide (a little more detail than before).**

Sherlock sat in the waiting room of the hospital, not wanting to leave. What John had said had hurt, but he refused to leave completely. He had been warned ahead of time that John would likely not remember anything, and he should have mentally prepared himself for this. But of course, Sherlock hadn't. He had been so sure that John would wake up and be completely fine. After all, John was a soldier, he was strong. How many times had he saved Sherlock's life? Of course he was going to be alright.

Sherlock had been wrong, though he didn't want to admit it to himself. John was far from fine, he was laying in a hospital bed and Sherlock had all but put him there. Sherlock's hand was shaking slightly as he thought about this. If he had of told John the truth originally, his flatmate wouldn't be in the hospital bed. And he would remember Sherlock.

Sherlock was lost in his thoughts when Dr. Coles came to find him. He didn't even notice the other man until he cleared his throat. Sherlock all but jumped from his chair as he looked up to the other man. He looked at Dr. Coles, his eyebrow arched just slightly.

"Dr. Watson has requested to see you in his room," the doctor said, gesturing towards the room that John was in. "You are to remain calm, and do not cause a scene with him. It would not be good for him," there was no room for an argument as the doctor turned and walked away.

Sherlock took a deep breath before he ran his hand through his hair slowly. He wasn't sure he should see John. What would that do to him? To John? Could he really handle John not remembering him? He wasn't so sure that he could.

Taking another deep breath, Sherlock began to walk towards John's room. The walk seemed much longer than it was, and Sherlock's heart was pounding as he made his way there. Was this was it was like to feel human? He wasn't positive, but he believed that it must be. This must be exactly what it's like.

Sherlock found himself in front of the room, one hand on the door handle, the other running through his hair again. He slowly opened the door, a small sigh on his lips until he saw John. The other was sitting up straight, his military posture clearly showing. Sherlock couldn't help but laugh softly. Even when he was in the hospital, John still managed to look strong and composed. He was starting to look so much more like himself.

John looked towards the door as he heard a laugh, and he frowned. He felt as though he should recognize the other male, more than just being someone he had only recently met. But John didn't, despite the slight tugging feeling he felt in his chest. What wasn't he remembering? Had the two of them been more than just flatmates?

John gestured towards the chair near the bed, but he didn't say anything. How were you supposed to greet someone you have known for multiple years but didn't remember? But more importantly, how did you greet someone who said they had faked their death to protect you?

Sherlock sat in the chair, his hands folding on his lap. He looked up at John, and stayed silent for many long minutes. Once the silence got unbearable, he cleared his throat. "So, John... How are you feeling?" He asked quietly, his voice almost raw. He hated the way it sounded, but he tried to ignore it.

John looked at the curly-haired man before him, and took a moment to reply. "I'm... feeling alright... But I'm confused. The doctor said I attempted suicide. I don't remember that. Why would I have tried that? And how did I try?" He whispered, worried he had tried to drink himself to death. That wouldn't have surprised him, not after knowing his sister, Harry was an alcoholic. John had always tried to keep his drinking to a minimum, refusing to become like his sister.

Sherlock turned his gaze to the far wall, and took a deep breath. He found that he was doing that more so than usual, more than he could ever remember himself doing. He studied the wall, memorizing every little detail as he tried to figure out how to word everything. He wasn't exactly sure why John had tried to kill himself, though his did have his theories. No one had told him much, he knew there had been a note, but that was it.

"Well... I only know so much, and I could theorize, but I don't know how correct I am. Normally I am nearly dead on, but... I'm not exactly in my normal state of mind at the moment," Sherlock began. "I can answer the latter question with a positive answer. You overdosed on sleeping pills. It seems that you had taken enough to kill most men, but you John, you're stronger than the average man. Your body fought it, but you nearly died."

John frowned but nodded slowly. "I see. For some reason my body wanted to keep me alive. I must not have really wanted to die," he murmured, more to himself than to Sherlock. But Sherlock didn't miss John's words and he couldn't help but smile just a little. "Could you tell me about your theories?"

Sherlock bit his lip for just a moment, a habit he had picked up over the year and a half that him and John had been apart, and he nodded. "I can, but just remember I could be completely off. I make no promises about being anywhere near the truth. You'd have to ask someone else for the actual truth. Molly might know," Sherlock paused, waiting for a response from John. The army doctor nodded and Sherlock continued on. "My number one theory is that you were still depressed from my death. I had been your best friend and I forced you to watch as I killed myself. That would leave anyone with emotional problems, even you aren't strong enough to escape those. My other theory is that something triggered you into doing so. You may not have been depressed constantly anymore but you may have seen someone that looked like me that triggered your depression again." Sherlock paused once again before he continued on. "There was a note, but no one will let me see it. I can see if Molly will let you see it," he finished in a whisper.

John nodded slowly. "I... I would like that," he murmured. "I want to know why I did this. I really do. If you could go find Molly, I would appreciate it." John looked to Sherlock with hopeful eyes and Sherlock was on his feet in a moment.

"I'll go find her and talk to her," he said as he headed towards the door. "Right away. And we will find out." John nodded in acknowledgement before he yawned. "Get some sleep and I'll track Molly down," Sherlock said before he left the room.


	6. I Believe In Sherlock Holmes

**Author's note: Sorry it's been so long, I had summatives and what not, and then my Oma passed away, so I'm sure you can imagine how stressful it's been lately. Second semester has just started and it looks like I have spare first, so I'm hoping to use my spare to work on this fic, but I make no promises. Reviews are always welcome! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, all rights to their respectful owners.**

**Chapter Warnings: Note is revealed (please note that it is the same as my fic "I Believe In Sherlock Holmes" as I decided to write this fic based on the note).**

It didn't take Sherlock long to track down Molly, after all when Sherlock set his mind to something he could do almost anything. Though, Sherlock would tell you he was capable of doing anything. "Molly," he called after the woman the moment he saw her.

Molly turned around to see the tall man, and she frowned. He was so far from being himself that it was almost scary, and she wasn't looking forward to the coming days. She knew that it was going to be hard for him, and that she would likely have to prevent him from doing something stupid at least once. "Yes, Sherlock?" She asked softly, her eyebrow arched slightly.

"John... He wants to see the note," he whispered, his eyes falling shut a moment. "He asked me to get it." He opened his eyes and looked at the woman in front of him. His eyes reflected nothing but the truth and he hoped that Molly would believe him.

Molly studied Sherlock for a few minutes before she nodded. "He's not going to like what it revels... and you won't either," she said knowing that Sherlock would be there when John read the note. She was not looking forward to how the other would behave once he knew what it said. After all, Sherlock had always been against human emotions, how would he handle what the note had to say?

Molly took a deep breath before she dug in her purse to find the note, having been carrying it with her, knowing that John would want to read it eventually. "You're not to read it without John. Understood, Sherlock?" When Sherlock nodded, Molly slowly handed the note over the him.

With a small nod of thanks, Sherlock quickly headed back to the room that John was in, and sat down in the chair by the bed. John had drifted back to sleep while he was waiting for Sherlock to get back, so Sherlock set the note beside the bed on the bedside table and tried to get comfortable while he waited.

What could that note hold? What could possibly be in it that neither of them would like? Did John actually hate Sherlock? God, Sherlock hoped not. He pulled his knees to his chest, his feet resting on the edge of the chair.

When John woke, almost an hour later, Sherlock was still sitting there, in the same position. John looked up slowly to the tall man, his eyes bleary with sleep. "Hey," he murmured quietly, "Did you get the note?"

Sherlock slowly blinked as if he was letting everything come back into focus and he nodded. "It's on the bedside table," he murmured, blinking a few more times. "Should I read it, or should you?"

"Can you read it to me?" John whispered as he reached for the note and passed it to the brown haired man. Sherlock nodded slowly, taking the note with a slightly shaky hand. He was nervous, he wouldn't lie.

As Sherlock unfolded the note, John sat up a little straighter, still waking up. Sherlock slowly began to read, "My name is Doctor John Hamish Watson and this is my story. I trained at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, England, training to become an army doctor. I later became Captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers and served in Afghanistan until I was shot in the shoulder. I was discharged shortly after, once I had healed. I moved back to London, and was seeing a therapist, who believed that my limp was a psychosomatic limp when I met Sherlock Holmes. Little did I know that he would be the man to change my life. Within twenty-four hours of meeting the other man, I had moved in with him, and I had visited a crime scene with him. I should mention that Sherlock Holmes was not the average man. He was the world's only consulting detective. He was able to tell you your life story from just looking at you. He knew the moment that he saw me that I had served abroad, and he was able to tell me that my sister, Harry was an alcoholic, and that she had recently left her wife, though he did believe that Harry was my brother at first. As I was saying, Sherlock Holmes was an extraordinary man, and I am honoured to have been able to call him my best friend. When I first met him, I was warned by many to stay away from him. They told me he was a psychopath, and that he "got off" on other people's murders. I'm glad that I didn't listen to them, because if I had... Well, I suppose you'll find out. My first real taste of what Sherlock was like was our first case together "A Study In Pink" as I refer to it on my blog. That was when I really got to see just how into a case he would get. That was also the first time I saved his life. I can still remember watching him from the window in the building beside the one he was in. I can still vividly see him lifting the pill to his mouth, and I can still feel what it was like to pull that trigger, to shoot the man in front of Sherlock."

Sherlock's voice cracked as he continued to read the note, his eyes widening, "I think that's when I first started to fall in love with him. Over the next year and a half, Sherlock and I became best friends, though I think I was really his only friend. One thing Sherlock said to me will always stick in my head. He once said to me, "Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one." That was when I realized he needed me just as much as I needed him. But I wasn't able to tell him that I needed him, not the way I needed him. I never told him, and now it's too late. I wish I had of told Sherlock, even if he didn't return the feelings, even if he would never have been able to. I still wish I had of. Every fucking day I wish I had of. Sherlock Holmes was my best friend and the most brilliant man I have ever and will ever know. But Jim Moriarty made him out to be a fraud. Jim Moriarty made Sherlock kill himself. The day Sherlock died, it still seems like yesterday, but it's been a year and a half. He stood on tip of St. Bart's, his hair pushed back slightly by the wind. He looked down at me as he talked to me on his phone. He told me that it was his note. He told me that "sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side." And with his final goodbye, Sherlock jumped. I watched my best friend, and the man I loved jump to his own death, and by the time I got to him, he was already dead. By the time I got to him, it was too late. I'm a fucking doctor and I couldn't save him! It's been a year and a half since Sherlock killed himself. A year and a half, and his name hasn't been cleared. But I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I always will. I love him and I will never stop loving him. Sherlock had one thing right. It was that sentiment is found on the losing side. And I'm okay with that. I'm okay with being on the losing side. My name is Doctor John Hamish Watson. I love Sherlock Holmes, and I believe in him. My name is Doctor John Hamish Watson, and this is my note."

Sherlock fell silent as he finished reading the note, looking to John who had been awfully quiet the entire time he was reading. John was no longer watching Sherlock, instead he was looking at the sheets on the bed.

"That makes sense as to why I would try to kill myself," he whispered quietly.


End file.
